The end result of all this, via ( )hole theory, is openness which allows the Outside to get in, equated to the Lovecraftian Elder Gods. The terrifying thing about this kind of openness, butchering from within, is the more one tries to ward it off, the more open one becomes. Pushed onto a frame of acetate scream words under plate glass then let it pass turning tacks into date palm oases washing the skins in salt-water brilliance and vacuum pumps in an oxygen tent. The smoke curls up just as cool as at the cinema, a trailing beef with love. Shook under rasp. Endless refineries darken skies that were once sulfurous but got over it. We think the sea is invulnerable & we are wrong. Somewhere you’re eating breakfast or hanging from my mind’s bridge. Like, I’m standing in the street’s puddle & something insidious springs from damp ankles to grind if I tell you what I fear it’s easier. I sleep the blah carcass KO’d beneath the appeasement brochure. I don’t want charity you fucks I want communism. From the bottom of a well comes my voice, hailing a taxi: “Get Me Out Of This Shambles, This Oubliette!” I feel crammed-in on a plane because there is no room for me to lift my arm, there, to hail a cab. In a cab there’s no room to hail a cab, either, but then you're already in one, it’s ridiculous. They are countless, my dear, all those Animal Gods. This emptiness is only a special condition of what there is, the hypotenuse of egg yolk, if only TV could get natural for one codeine second. It does, and is. Kaleidoscope sic is the shit. Variously described as wind gods and, more recently, as ‘were-monkeys’ and ritual clowns, these statues may actually represent howler monkeys in their quality of musicians. If you are looking for the perfect anthropodicy / the perfect anthropodicy is damage. What is most important is that you do not reason yourself into any position, and when the child screams your name before its head comes off you are able to both respond and not respond and to understand the one you must do and do do and the fire with which you are involved takes and gives and seizes. Have you seen the Omophoto of the hot dog squirting ketchup right between the eyes, stalwart soldiering in the direction of the skid? Glorious autosarcophagy! The smell of cut grass and petrol. Spit in kazoos. I have reached thuh purpling skin. Total muzzleflash. A fat parrot bleeding Tipp-Ex. Down to spikes: here the milk lines twist. This is more than blood and mitochondria.
[Note: Sources: Paul Charles Smith, “Cyclonopedia: Complicity with Anonymous Materials”, at Empty Your Heart of Its Mortal Dream, 8 Sept 010; Anna Ticehurst, “Sunbathing Under Surveillance Camera One”, in Better than Language: An Anthology of New Modernist Poetries (ed. Chris Goode); Francesca Lisette, “Casebook: A History of Autonomy & Anger: A poem for performance”, in Goode; Allen Bramhall, “Sky Dog on His Porch in Heaven”, at Simple Theories, 25 Aug 012; Julia Cohen, “The Ache Poem”, “The Ache Poem”, “The Ache Poem”, at BOMBLOG, 24 Aug 012; Jonny Liron, “If it were night …”, “In nauseous wailing …”, “Room Manoeuvre”, in Goode; JBR, addressed to various people on FB; Michael Benedikt, “Portland Taxis”, at Poets.org; JBR (the Animal Gods are for Rebecca Loudon); Jonty Tiplady, “Poem”, “Again Today the Polluters of the Year Announced”, “Love Is Better Than Language”, in Goode; JBR; Wikipedia, “Howler Monkey Gods”; Josh Stanley, “Earth”, in Goode (anthropodicy = “An attempt, or argument attempting, to justify the existence of humanity as good (contrast theodicy)” -- Wiktionary); JBR, but see untitled (Last Meal), at Omo Studios, 25 Aug 012; heila E Murphy, “haibun (‘Semblicity, the doctoral charade …’), at experiential-experimental-literature, 25 Aug 012; JBR (autosarcophagy = self-cannibalism); Linus Slug, “FrassBuik”, in Goode; Mike Wallace-Hadrill, “Oxytocin Nasty”, in Goode (Tipp-Ex = BIC Europe Group’s European brand of correcting products); Nat Raha, “Solstice Ode”, in Goode]